


Seven Steps 'Til Monday

by coricomile



Category: Glee
Genre: Animal Play, Kink, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-26
Updated: 2012-02-26
Packaged: 2017-10-31 18:15:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/347000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's natural, then, for Puck to call Kurt out on it. To shut him the fuck up and make him do something productive, or at least something Puck can get entertainment out of also. So, he says, "Sit." And, the impressive thing is, Kurt does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seven Steps 'Til Monday

It's an accident, the first time. 

They're in Kurt's room, sheet music for next year spread over the bed and desk, notes crammed into the margins. The basement's dark, no windows to let the sun shine in, the light from the overhead yellow and dim. 

Puck's half buzzed from the forty he's been carrying around in his backpack, his skin vibrating and his eyelids heavy. He's in Kurt Hummel's room, half drunk, and he's okay with that, somehow. How the mighty have fallen.

Kurt's pacing the room, hands on his waist, bitching about the arrangement. Puck's not listening- he never does- and Kurt doesn't seem to care, anyway, his mouth moving in a constant stream of pointless. They're not the stars, and they'll never be the stars. Puck knows that. He just wishes Kurt did, too.

There's a rush of pink over Kurt's cheeks a nose, darker than usual, and Puck thinks about sunburns. He wonders if Kurt's the kind of guy to slather himself in SPF six hundred, or if he wears a stupid hat like Quinn does. There's a twinge in his chest thinking about Quinn, about the baby that's asleep in someone else's house, and Puck shoves it to the side. This is not the time or place.

Kurt's got a tempo going, his steps and words falling to a beat that Puck taps out against the warmed glass in his hand. Tap, tap, _bitch_ , tap, tap _bitch_. Puck's picking up phrases here and there, but he's not really paying it much attention. The back and forth is giving him a headache.

It's natural, then, to call Kurt out on it. To shut him the fuck up and make him do something productive, or at least something Puck can get entertainment out of also. 

So, he says, "Sit." And, the impressive thing is, Kurt does.

He drops to his ass on the carpet almost immediately, hands in his lap, mouth shut and eyes wide. Puck blinks at him and thinks, _huh_. Kurt's face goes from pink to red to ghost white in a dizzying three seconds. He stands and brushes his pants off, eyes trained on the floor.

"Please leave," he says. And, to his own surprise, Puck does.

\--- 

Then, it's not so much an accident, but rather a carefully planned coincidence.

The air is hot and humid sticky, the thick grease smell of burgers heavy in the air. Finn's at the grill with Kurt's dad, staring at the flames as Kurt's dad talks at him. The apron he's wearing is a size too small, the ties barely closing around his waist, some ugly color Kurt probably picked out.

Kurt's wearing some stupid thing around his neck that keeps reflecting in the sun, not quite steel but not quite silver. It glows, a sunburst shine in the Hummel's backyard. When Puck gets close enough, he can see that it's a set of dog tags, shiny and blank.

Quinn and Brittany are helping Carol carry side dishes out, their sundresses light and airy, butter yellow and bubblegum blue. Puck's trying to watch them, but the flash of Kurt across the yard, starlight burst in August, keeps catching his eye.

Artie's watching him carefully, and Puck wonders why he's at a _glee_ barbecue. It has to be the free burgers, because he can only stand these people in fits and bursts, not in anything long standing. Artie looks away, a tan flash of Tina's bare legs catching him, and Puck slips inside the house, relief sinking into his skin.

He finds himself in the basement, in Kurt's room, laying on the floor, out of the eye of the sun. There's a grey green scarf hanging out of the clothes hamper, the only thing out of place. Puck pulls it down and wraps it around his fingers, touches it to his cheek. It's soft like silk, thick, and smells like cologne, sweet and musky. 

The door cracks open, and Finn's face fills the space. They're not cool yet, but Puck's stomach doesn't drop every time he sees him, and Finn doesn't go tense at the arms and shoulders every time Puck's in the room. It's small miracles that stay the floods. 

"You shouldn't be in here," Finn says. Puck shrugs and unwraps the scarf from his hand. It's cool but going warm, the smell of the cologne fading. He drops it, the end brushing over his collar as it falls away. "Why are you in here?"

"I don't know," Puck says, because he doesn't. Finn watches him for a long moment, and Puck thinks he's going to say something, but Finn turns and leaves without a word. 

Sometime later, Kurt squeezes in through the cracked door, small and wriggly, the bridge of his nose stained summertime red. He stalls, surprised to see Puck there. For a thump, thump, pound of Puck's heart, they're quiet, eyes locked in a standoff. Kurt closes the door and steps forward cautiously, prey approaching the resting predator. Guilt coils in Puck's belly, sharp.

They sit together, Puck stretched on his back, Kurt curled around his shins, chin tucked between his knees. Something flickers in Puck's chest. Puck's never doubted himself before, and he's not going to start now.

"Lay down," he says. Kurt's legs slide out from under him on auto pilot, bare feet brushing over Puck's thighs as he leans to his side, head on his arm, kneecaps pressed to   
Puck's. His eyes are closed, eyelashes a dark fan over his pink cheeks. "Speak."

"Woof," Kurt says softly, eyes shutting tighter. The dog tags slide over his chest to the floor and clink together.

When Puck reaches forward to scratch the soft skin behind Kurt's ear, Kurt presses into it.

\---

After that, it becomes intentional.

Puck spends the last two weeks of summer break in the Hummel basement, playing Halo with Kurt and Finn and eating nachos. There's two days left of summer, forever left of growing up, and Puck's not sure of which is worse. 

He's been learning the signs of Kurt's body, the language of his shoulders and lips and hands. He can recognize the curl of _yes_ , the hunch of _I'm sorry, I can't_ , the closed off, narrowness of _no_. He's been testing the waters, testing limits with questions and demands and a punch to the mouth when he'd gone too far. 

Finn's on a date, and Kurt's dad and Carol are away, and Kurt's watching, those stupid dog tags against his shirt bright. When Puck sits on the edge of the bed and pats the space between his legs, Kurt comes, hands and knees to the carpet, head bowed. When Puck holds his hand palm up, Kurt licks a long line across it, slippery wet and eager.

Puck doesn't ask why, and Kurt doesn't tell. Puck doesn't say _it could have been someone else_ , because he's happy it's him. He doesn't wonder why things change when the tags come off, doesn't ask why it's okay that Kurt can kiss him then and only then, doesn't ask himself why any of it is okay at all.

When school starts again, he sees the tags at Kurt's throat, silver shine under the fluorescents, and thinks, _oh_ , and thinks, _I understand_. He pats his thigh twice, palm clapping against denim like he's brushing dirt away, and Kurt comes, head held high. He looks calmer, then. Stable.

Later, when the tags are on Kurt's night stand, and Puck's under the covers, he sees the scratch, scratch, etch of his initials, small and easy to miss, at the base of them. A part of him feels uneasy. This is too much, too much. He can barely take care of himself- But then Kurt smiles at him, sleepy eyes and pink lips and growing mouth bruise at his collar, and Puck relaxes into it. 

He's got this.


End file.
